


Sometimes

by yourbucky221B



Series: Finding the right thing to say [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Romance, Sherlock missing John, but not really, for anna, general sadness, who wanted tons of angsty Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourbucky221B/pseuds/yourbucky221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock doesn’t even realise he’s lying to John. It’s better than the truth.</p><p>A sad angsty Johnlock fic for Anna (ughbenedict) because we have a mutual love of all things sad, angsty, pining and Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Sometimes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615874) by [leeloque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeloque/pseuds/leeloque)



> So this is my third little fic which came about because of Anna. This one was mainly because she wanted sad johnlock headcanons, and I ended up sending her so many I joked I may as well have written a fic for her. 
> 
> So I actually wrote her a fic. 
> 
> Well, another one.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, sweetie!
> 
> I don't write angst, much, so hopefully this is angsty enough for you, or sad enough anyway.

 

Sometimes Sherlock pretends he can hear John in the kitchen, pottering about, making their tea. Their tea.

 

Sometimes Sherlock plays his violin and pretends there’s an ex-army doctor upstairs who can’t sleep and that he’s helping keep the nightmares at bay. Helping him.

 

Sometimes Sherlock makes tea but for two people. Not one.

 

Sometimes he calls out for John to pass him something, but there’s no reply and Sherlock has to get up to get what he needed. There’s never a reply anymore.

 

Sometimes Sherlock stands in the lab right where he first laid eyes on him, the ex-army doctor with the psychosomatic limp. But no one walks through that door now.

 

Sometimes he stands at the bottom of St Bart’s, right where John stood, trying to imagine the pain he put John through. He doesn’t always have to imagine.

 

Sometimes he stands on the rooftop again, and looks out, feeling his body sway as he closes his eyes, wondering what it would feel like to actually do it. Not cheating death.

 

Sometimes Sherlock ignores John’s texts and when John comes around says he lost his phone on a case. He always lies now.

 

Sometimes Sherlock doesn’t even realise he’s lying to John. It’s better than the truth.

 

Sometimes Sherlock pretends that he isn’t in love with John, and that he never met him. A glance at a chair is all it takes to snap him out of his lies.

 

 

*      *      *

Sherlock doesn’t know when it happened but he realises that he’s lost a lot of weight. His clothes don’t fit him properly anymore, all of his shirts hang loosely on his torso and his trousers slip off of his waist.  He can hide it well though. He always does up at least one of the buttons on his coat now, Lestrade never says anything.  He walks around covered in his sheet most of the time, just in case Mrs Hudson comes up.

John hadn’t visited him in about two months.

Sherlock comes to accept the fact that John isn’t a part of his life anymore. He still checks his phone for messages.

Four months go by since John’s last visit.

Sherlock throws out all of the food in the fridge, including the jam. He doesn’t buy more.

Mrs Hudson asks him why he never plays anymore. He mumbles something about not having time.

He doesn’t let her know that he smashed it three months ago.

He stops accepting cases from Lestrade. He makes up lies about having enough clients.

He doesn’t bother getting dressed anymore. None of his clothes fit him. He just wanders around the flat in a t-shirt that slips off of his shoulder and his pyjama bottoms which he had to double knot to keep them on his hips.

Mrs Hudson starts making food for him when she notices his fridge is empty, not to mention the cupboards.

He still doesn’t eat.

One evening he finds himself sat in his room, the night drawing closer, another day over. His gaze is fixed on the tin box opposite him. Just once would be enough, he tells himself. Just once to forget.

He’s still there when the sun rises. The box unopened.

 

 

*      *      *

Seven months in and John wanders into the flat with a smile, clueless.

Sherlock doesn’t bother looking up. He doesn’t bother looking at the man. He could be imagining things for all he knew. He’d seen John plenty of times the past few weeks. All in his mind. This feels no different.

John’s hand presses to his forehead. Sherlock’s eyes snap to his face.

This John is real.

He doesn’t think then, he just surges forward, capturing John’s lips with his. He slides his eyes shut and feels and pours. He feels like he’s drowning in John. But he doesn’t mind. It’s a more pleasant experience than the past few months. Not as potent, it’s like a caress, a slow descent. He compares it to a descent into madness. He doesn’t think it’s too farfetched. He was mad. Mad for loving a man who wouldn’t love him back. He hadn’t thought his life had been missing anything until John limped into St Bart’s that day, and now he knew what it had been missing and he could never have that.

He doesn’t see John for another month after that.

When John does return he argues, he wants to understand. He sees Sherlock properly now, sees the poke of bones beneath skin, the jut of his cheekbones, the dark circles under his eyes.  He leaves again.

He’s back within an hour, this time with a bag.

Sherlock wonders why it took him so long to figure out how to bring John back to Baker Street. How to bring him home.

He fades then, his eyes fluttering close before they open again and he’s in his room, John at his side with a bowl of something. He doesn’t turn his nose away, he eats. He eats because John asked him to.

Sherlock doesn’t argue at all. He just does. He does exactly what John asks him to and soon Sherlock is well again.

John leaves.

 

 

*      *      *

Sherlock sits in his chair, alert.

His body had so much energy now, so much more juice on which to run. His mind whirs constantly now. The pain just gets worse. He realises they never really talked about what he did. That ghost of a memory, his lips against John’s. He remembers John confronting him, but he doesn’t remember much of that day. He knows he passed out. Nothing was resolved.

He texts John for the first time in almost nine months.

_We need to talk –SH_

**I’m busy.**

Sherlock doesn’t try again. He just waits.

 

*      *      *

**Can I come over tonight? I can get Chinese?**

Sherlock doesn’t even hesitate to reply. He calls Lestrade and tells him something came up. He tells Mrs Hudson that she doesn’t need to cook for him tonight. He texts Mycroft and tells him on no account should he turn up unannounced.

John arrives at seven with takeaway and they start eating immediately.  They fall into a comfortable silence. Sherlock finds himself smiling at John. John looks up, and narrows his eyes, a playful smile on his lips.

“What?”

“It’s good to see you again, John.” Sherlock says honestly, smiling before tucking into his food again.

“You too.” John replies.

They eat until they’re full. Then they sit in their armchairs and talk about nonsense for hours until John announces he has to head back. Sherlock’s stomach twists painfully.

“John, can’t you stay a bit longer?”

“Got to get back to Mary.” He says with a sad smile.

Sherlock watches him head for the stairs.

“We never resolved anything.” He blurts out.

“What?”

“After I kissed you. We never resolved anything. We didn’t talk about it.”

“What did you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I just expected to talk about it. Isn’t that what people do when someone kisses someone else?” He tries to understand where John is coming at this from. He’s struggling.

“Why did you do it?”

“Sorry?”

John sighs, “Why did you do it? Why did you kiss me?”

“I missed you.” Sherlock admits, “I hate not having you around.”

John looks at the floor, “I missed you too.”

“I also did it because I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you.”

John sighs again, as if he expected that. He looks up, his face torn. Pained.

“You didn’t want me to kiss you did you?”

John steps back towards him, a hand reaching up to brush away some of Sherlock’s hair from his face, “If you hadn’t of jumped, if you hadn’t of left me for two years then I’d still live here and I’d let you kiss me whenever you wanted to.”

“But I did.”

John smiles sadly, his eyes searching Sherlock’s, “But you did.”

He pushes up and kisses Sherlock’s lips ever so softly, his hands resting on his shoulders to hold himself up. Sherlock takes what he can. He understands now. This is what they could have had. But not what they can have. They can never have this. This is one thing in the world Sherlock can’t have. The one thing which he lives for.

John pulls away and touches Sherlock’s cheek before leaving the flat. They don’t say anything about love. They don’t need to. They both know what this is.

 

Sherlock knows.

 

He won’t come back.

 

This wasn’t a catch up.

 

This was a goodbye.

* * *

Anna made a beautiful **[edit](http://painlock.tumblr.com/post/76255227618/sometimes-sherlock-pretends-that-he-isnt-in-love)** for this. 

Thank you sweetie x

**Author's Note:**

> So.... yeah. Sad enough for you?
> 
> Or too sad?
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it.
> 
> Thanks to Anna for fuelling my inner sad angsty writer.
> 
> And my mom for not having a go at me for staying up late to write this.
> 
> And you guys for reading this :)


End file.
